She walks where shadows kiss the hem of flame,
a daughter of the dusk, with storm for soul—
the stars have sung to her a nameless name,
whispered it through skies no man could stroll,
and now, she bleeds for more than just a goal.
She wears her longing like a winter cloak,
heavy, fragrant with a history of snow—
her hope, a match in wind that never broke,
a seedling rooted where no gardens grow—
in every fracture, she lets promise show.
Love, to her, is not a tender bloom,
but the iron flower wrought in blacksmith’s fire,
not perfume but the scent of furnace fume,
a prayer caught between desire and mire—
yet from soot and spark, she builds her lyre.
Each “no” she faced, a staircase carved in stone,
each scorn, a chisel to her marble will—
she bore them not as burdens, but as bone,
the architecture of her silent thrill,
a citadel that longing could not kill.
His eyes, to her, were planets in eclipse,
speaking in ellipses, far and cold—
but still she pressed her fever to her lips,
sent verses through the ache of being bold,
her voice, a letter time could never fold.
The world said love is war, and she agreed,
but not in blood, not conquest nor deceit—
to her, the battle lived in every need,
in every night she stood and did not retreat,
in every fall where she refused defeat.
She’s ink and ache, a narrative in motion,
stitched in syllables the brave recite—
she drinks the moon like it were her ocean,
dares the dark to steal her final light—
for she has sworn to win, not just to fight.
Now stars align like soldiers in her sky,
the wind hums ballads in her chosen key—
and if he never learns the how or why,
still she will burn, not beg, to be set free—
for love was never cage, but alchemy.